


Doll, You Make 'Em Feel So Small (And They Love It!)

by failedcharismacheck



Series: Beauyasha college au [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Beauregard: Disaster Lesbian, Crushes, Drunkenness, F/F, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 14:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17367218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/failedcharismacheck/pseuds/failedcharismacheck
Summary: Yasha looks hot in her motorcycle jacket, Beauregard thinks. Hot as in very warm, with all the bodies packed into this apartment, but mainly hot as in sexy. Beau wonders if Yasha can actually drive a motorcycle. She bets she can.(Beau admires Yasha while drunk at a college party. Title from Boys Wanna Be Her)





	Doll, You Make 'Em Feel So Small (And They Love It!)

**Author's Note:**

> tw: vomiting. Sorry!

Yasha looks hot in her motorcycle jacket, Beauregard thinks. Hot as in very warm, with all the bodies packed into this apartment, but mainly hot as in sexy. Beau wonders if Yasha can actually drive a motorcycle. She bets she can.

Beau’s sitting on the stairs (as all surfaces actually intended for sitting were occupied), taking her Clay-mandated break from the party. She had decided earlier to go drink-for-drink with Nott, who can fit a lot of booze into her tiny body. This was _after_ Beau and Fjord had already lost at beer pong. Clay, designated driver and person with a degree of impulse control, took it upon himself to step in. But he let Beau keep the beer she was working on. She sips it as she watches Yasha through the balusters of the stairs.

For someone sitting alone at a party in her own house, Yasha doesn't look unhappy. Molly, Yasha's roommate and primary host of this little soirée, flits around the living room, gregarious and flirty and clad in the clashing technicolor he somehow wears well. The other host sits quietly. She's sat in the corner, people-watching. Beau tries to follow her eyes, see what she's seeing. She watches a couple giggle and whisper nonsense at each other. She watches two drunk girls share a bowl of chips and pet each other’s hair. She watches a group of friends have a spirited argument about Russian literature (goddamn English majors). But Beau’s eyes never leave Yasha for long.

They’re friends, Beau likes to think. They’re not close, one might even say they're just familiar acquaintances, but they have mutual friendships and see each other fairly often. They have a class together on Thursdays, but they don’t sit together. Beau wishes they sat together. Maybe then she wouldn't fall asleep in class so much, because Yasha fucking fascinates her.

She likes the way Yasha dresses. Some girls built like her would dress to look smaller, but Yasha wears bulky leather jackets and tall, stompy combat boots. She takes up space with a quiet confidence that someone like Beau, who only knows obnoxious braggadocio, admires so much. Beau's not as much of a scrapper as she was as teen, but that part of her can't help but wonder how good Yasha would be in a fight.

She knows Yasha’s majoring in women’s studies and theology. Beau can almost hear her own dad’s voice, smugly declaring that she’ll never make any money that way. Naturally, that only makes it seem cool. Who would've thought theology would feel punk rock? Beau wonders if she’ll ever outgrow that contrarian impulse now that she’s (more or less) an adult. Seems unlikely.

"Do you intend to speak to her or are you just ogling?" 

"Jesus!" Beau gasps, nearly startled into spilling the rest of her drink.

"He wishes," Molly says, blissfully unaware of how close he came to being punched in the throat. He sits down on the step next to her. "So what's the game plan?"

"Don't have one," she says with her voice lowered, hoping he'll follow suit.

No such luck. "What? Not enough game for a plan?"

"Fuck off, Molly." She has plenty of game. Most of the time. And she's not quite sober enough for his particular flavor of banter.

"You show up underdressed, stare at my housemate, and tell me to fuck off in my own home." He shakes his Manic Panic head in disappointment, but he's smiling. "Terrible guest."

"I'm dressed fine!"

"You're wearing track pants." Beau can't come up with a comeback. He looks fabulous as usual, the son of a bitch.

"You smell like weed." She's asking for some but he doesn't seem to pick up on it. He stands up.

"And you're boring me. Best of luck to you in your endeavors." He taps his knuckle under her chin. She attempts to swat him away but her aim is off. "You can't hide on these stairs forever, dear." Molly saunters away, off to find someone who won't bore him.

Beau can saunter too, she thinks as she turns her attention back to the woman in the corner. She could just walk over to Yasha with a swagger reserved for the dumb and confident. Some girls like dumb and confident. But that doesn't seem like Yasha's thing. She doesn't know what Yasha's thing would be.

Besides, she heard from a friend who heard from a friend that Yasha isn’t looking to date. _We don't have to date_ , her brain supplies, accompanied by a cheesy 70's porno bassline. They could just meet at a party like this one and stumble into someone's bedroom or bathroom or closet together. Hell, Yasha's own bedroom is right upstairs. But the thought of that makes Beau weirdly kind of sad. Yasha probably wouldn't want to anyway. Especially not when Beau's underdressed. She looks down at her offending track pants. They're not even name brand.

When she looks up again, Yasha is looking at her.

Beau’s eyes quickly dart away, finding a safe place to land on the multicolored tapestry hung up on the wall. That particular piece of decor was probably Molly’s decision. She studies the pattern for a few seconds before risking a glance back over. Yasha's still looking at her, just out of the corner of her eye like it’s not worth turning her head. If Beau wasn't busy being embarrassed, she'd have time to find that hot. 

Now that she’s been exposed as a staring creep, maybe it’s time she rejoins her friends. Maybe she’ll go find Fjord and they can find something irresponsible to do. Unless Avantika is at this party, in which case he’s probably managing that just fine on his own. Or maybe she’ll find Clay and just watch him talk to people. That’s always interesting. She moves to stand up, then immediately regrets it.

It feels like her stomach gets the memo late, staying on the ground and then slingshotting upwards to make up for lost time. She grips the handrail against the wave of nausea, like that'll do any good. Maybe she's _a bit_ drunker than was originally thought. She turns around and heads upstairs, where she's pretty she'll find a bathroom. If she can manage the ascent, that is. Why the fuck did Clay put her on the  _stairs_?

Beau locates the bathroom and swings the door open, revealing a couple making out. The two guys separate enough to look at her with annoyance. Not her fault they didn’t lock the door.

“Hey, can I have this bathroom? I kinda need to throw up.” They glare at her for a second before she jabs her thumb over her shoulder, the international sign for _get the fuck out_. They exit in a huff just in time for Beau to shut the door behind her and empty her stomach into the toilet. Once the ordeal seems to be over, she rinses her mouth in the sink and slumps her drunk, stupid body against the wall. Which then turns into a downward slide into sitting on the floor. She whispers to the empty bathroom, "Why am I so sweaty?"

Someone knocks, which is the last thing Beau needs.

“Ocupado,” she answers impatiently. If it’s those two guys again…

“Are you alright?” asks the person on the other side of the door, voice vaguely accented and softer than you'd expect. It's Yasha, because of-fucking-course it is.

“I’m fine! Totally cool!” Beau gives a thumbs up and belatedly realizes Yasha can’t see it through the door. Probably for the best as her hands are sort of shaking. Over the muffled sound of Molly's obscure pop music, Beau hears the heavy sound of boot-clad feet walking away. But she doesn't get to wallow in peaceful solitude for long before they come back.

The door cracks, opening the rest of the way when Beau doesn't protest. Yasha steps in and gently closes the door behind her. “Hi.”

“Hey. I’m all gross,” Beau warns, pushing back a few strands of hair that had fallen out of her topknot.

“It’s okay.” She hands her a bottle of water. "I have a pretty high gross tolerance."

“Thanks.” Beau takes it as Yasha sits on the edge of the bathtub. The water's pleasantly cold. She holds it to her face even though it probably looks stupid. From her position on the floor, she’s closer to eye level with Yasha’s legs than her face. She tries not to notice her thighs.

…She tries not to be noticed noticing her thighs.

Yasha is quiet, as usual, looking down with concerned sympathy. Beau thinks it's sympathy, at least. She's hard to read. Maybe she's just supervising so Beau doesn't barf all over her shower curtain.

Beau should say something. _Some party, huh?_ Lame. _You come here often?_ She lives here. _I had a sex dream about you once._ A bit much for right now.

“I like your plant,” she eventually decides, pointing up to the window high on the wall, on which sits one of those little desert plants that’ll live if you forget to water it but isn’t a cactus. She had got a quick glance at it earlier before doubling over. “That sounded dumb. Sorry, I’m uncomfortable with silence.”

Yasha looks upwards. Jesus, you could cut yourself on that jawline. Beau wants to lick it.

“Her name is Deirdre,” Yasha says, perplexingly. She looks back down at Beau. “You’re supposed to name them. It makes them grow faster.”

Beau leans back against the cabinet under the sink. Her head thunks against the wood. Hopefully it’ll knock a sense of decorum into her, but nothing else has managed to yet. “S'pretty.”

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” she says with a smile, the cool one she usually wears while crossing her arms to make her biceps bigger. That last part might be pushing her luck though, so she doesn’t do it. On impulse she asks, "Can I sit by you in class on Thursday?"

Yasha seems taken aback. She blinks a few times before answering simply, "Yes."

"Awesome." She tries to maintain the cool face but can feel it wobble. “I’m gonna throw up again.”

She does. The escaped strands of hair fall in her face again. Yasha reaches out and brushes them back. Beau thinks she might cry for some reason. She really hopes she doesn’t. That would be weird. She wipes her mouth and sits back, feigning nonchalance in an attempt to preserve a little dignity. "Sorry about that."

Yasha passes her the water. "It's fine. Don't apologize."

She's sitting above Beau with her jacket and her boots and her thighs and her plant and Beau is suddenly and irrationally convinced that if they sit there for much longer, she might just fall in love. Which would be awfully inconvenient.

Beau doesn't tell her any of that, but the wave of infatuation is hard to hold off. Beau knows that her thoughts have a tendency to fall out of her mouth without her permission, and that sometimes the most you can do is try to temper it into something that won't get you punched. She looks up at Yasha from the floor and even sitting down she feels so tall. Beau wants to touch her but doesn't, instead leans forward and professes, like some grand confession, “You’re so fucking _cool_.”

In the brief moment before she begins retching again, she thinks she sees Yasha smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope Beau & Mollymauk's conversation didn't come off too mean. I was going for an affectionately antagonist sort of friendship


End file.
